Life in Technicolor
by maggiesbell
Summary: An undercover operation goes south, leaving Maggie in a coma.
1. dead hearts

When Maggie opened her eyes again, there was no chaos or disorder, no flashes of white or explosions of pain. Instead, she found herself surrounded by a steady stream of _beeps _and a faint snoring, her body free of aches and exhaustion. It felt _heavenly_, and had it not been for the fact that she was currently standing in a hospital room, she would've enjoyed it.

She blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the scene in front of her. _This isn't real_, she thought, staring at the brunette lying in the bed in front of her. She'd been through the wars. Her skin was covered in hues of purple and blue and she was dependent on a machine to breathe for her, with her torso wrapped in bandages. However, the trauma itself wasn't what struck her; it was _who _it belonged to. She was staring at the body of Special Agent Maggie Bell. Herself. Or, at least, a shell of herself.

Bizarre would be an understatement. She supposed this was some sort of coping mechanism. She'd been hurt, and this was her brain was trying to make sense of the situation. Though, she wished it hadn't chosen to render her a ghost devoid of feelings of pain and discomfort. Judging by the state of her body, she ought to feel some. It couldn't be a good sign that physical sensations evaded her.

_It's just the painkillers_, she reassured herself. No reason to think that she'd suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury from the fight. She was _fine_. Painkillers were a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why she wasn't sensing any pain, even though she didn't feel groggy, either. She wasn't really feeling anything, aside from a comforting warmth surrounding her hand.

She let her gaze drop, only now realizing someone was holding her physical-self's hand. Turning her head, she also solved the mystery of the quiet snoring. OA. Of course. Even asleep he looked exhausted; his eyes accented by dark rings. Had she been awake for real, she would've made a jab at his looks. She imagined that it would lighten his mood a little, if she teased him about his wrinkled shirt or the mess that was his hair. That it would let him know it wasn't that serious, that everything would be okay.

But she wasn't awake. She wasn't okay, and neither was he. Judging from the half-dozen coffee cups on the floor, he'd been here for a while. And again, she wished she'd been awake, if only to tell him that he didn't needto stay. What he needed was sleep — someplace other than upright in a dimly-lit hospital room recovering from a caffeine-crash. By now, his bones must be aching, desperate for movement (or the very least, a surface kinder than an old chair). Yet, a small part of her — a selfish part of her — was relieved she wasn't as alone as when she'd been left to die.

She instinctively reached for her chest at the memory, fingers grazing the area where the bullet had torn through her. It was staggering how something so small could cause so much damage. Between that and the beating she'd endured; it was a miracle backup had found her in time for her to still be alive (if only barely).

"I know undercover has its dangers" a familiar voice said, making her freeze, "but I still can't believe the informant sold you out."

_It's only a manifestation of your brain trying to cope, _she told herself. Seeking comfort in the form of safe person made perfect sense, even if that person happened to be your dead husband. Still, she was taken aback by just how real he looked when she turned her head.

"Hi." He sounded real, too.

A symphony of emotions hit her all at once; a flicker of yearning here, a splash of heartbreak there. _God_, how she still missed him.

She steadied her breath. "Jason?"

"Thought you might want some company."

He wasn't wrong; limbo had been terribly lonely. _Is, _she corrected herself. He wasn't really there, after all. But if he _had _been, there would be so many things to say, so much to get off her chest. And in the end, what was the harm in pretending? To allow herself to entertain the possibility, if only for a little while?

"I got Keller."

The words plopped out of her. Of all the things she wanted to say, that's somehow the first thing to escape her throat. She needed him to know that she'd gotten justice for him and closure for herself, that his death had led to Keller being arrested. He hadn't died for nothing. That had to mean something.

"I know," he said. "I'm proud of you, Maggie."

Proud. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the warmth in her chest. She was proud of him, too. He'd changed the world in his own way. She wished she'd told him that more. She wished she'd done a lot of things different. And the warmth faded away, surrendering to pain and regret.

"I'm sorry," she paused, taking a moment to control her breath. "I'm sorry we didn't get to have a family."

He frowned. "It's not your fault."

"_I_ wanted to wait."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Maggie," he said gently, "you couldn't know." He stepped closer to her. "I'm just glad we got the time together we did, kids or no kids," he continued. "I don't have any regrets."

"You don't?" Because she did. Many of them. They had so many lost moments, so many _if onlys_. And he was the one with a lifetime of unlived stories; she'd just been left behind. She could still try to make the most out of life. Well, up until now, at least.

He shook his head. "I don't." Then he smiled. "And for the record, you're allowed to be happy. You shouldn't feel guilty about healing."

Oh. He knew about her attempts to move on, then. Of course he did. He was part of her subconsciousness. Still, hearing him say it made her feel somewhat lighter. Funny how guilt worked.

"So," he looked at the bed, "how are you feeling about all of this?"

She returned her attention to her physical self, still struck by how utterly lifeless she looked, skin pale and body unmoving. It was eerie, how quickly things could change. One second, one mistake — one scared informant selling you out — and your life would crumble around you.

It had happened before. After Jason, everything changed, and she'd fully immersed herself into the role of the workaholic widow. The almost-year between his death and her being partnered with OA had been the loneliest of her life. She'd forever be grateful for his efforts to befriend her. She hadn't realized how much she missed having that in her life until he'd become one of the most important parts of her life.

"He really cares about you too, you know."

She just nodded, too distracted by the feeling settling in her chest to say anything; she didn't want to leave OA. She didn't want to leave her life behind. Not now, not after clawing her way back to some resemblance of happiness.

A morbid curiosity overwhelmed her then, picturing the world without herself. Her friends and family would still grow old. Evil and virtuosity would still exist, the sun would still rise and set, and wars would still be won and lost. Nothing that truly mattered would really change. Life would go on, regardless of whether she was there to experience it. She just wouldn't be there to experience it. And in the end, someone else would take her place in the world, moving into _her _house, be given _her _desk. Somehow, that's the image that made her lose her breath. She didn't want to be gone.

Her surroundings blurred together as her breaths grew uncontrollably rapid. _Breathe in, breathe out. _It was a simple concept, but one she failed at nevertheless. _S_he took a step backwards, attempting to regain her balance. _Breathe in, breathe out._ A frantic beeping cut through the silence, and she was suddenly _very _aware of how hard her heart was working, the_ thumpthumthump _quickly drowning out yells for help and the commotion it precipitated.

She took another unsteady step backwards, and another, before her shaking hand found the wall, grateful that ghost physics didn't entail her unwillingly falling through walls. At least she had that going for her. And if not for the crushing feeling in her chest, the absurdity of that thought might've elicited a chuckle.

_Breathe in, breathe out_. She closed her eyes as her cheeks dampened. _Just breathe. _She rested against the wall, not trusting her legs to support her anymore, and let herself sink to the floor.

"_Is she okay? What's happening?"_

"_She's just having a nightmare. I'm administering a sedative." _

Just a nightmare. It didn't really feel like _just_ anything, but at least she wasn't dying. That was something. She held onto that, wrapping her arms around her knees as she tuned out everything aside from her breaths and heartbeat. _Breathe in, breathe out._ She got this.

Eventually, her heartbeat returned to normal, leaving room for exhaustion to set in her bones. She had no idea whether it was her breathing techniques or the sedatives that finally calmed her, and frankly, she didn't care. Right now, she was just grateful it was over.

"You feeling better?" Jason asked.

"Yeah," she croaked.

She opened her eyes again, finding the room bathing in sunlight. It caused a frown, but she quickly surrendered her attempts at comprehending time. Sure, it had been dark outside a moment ago, but she was also a living ghost whose only company was a dead ghost.

"You could be stuck with worse company, you know."

She smiled, but it quickly faltered. "You're not really here," she said and looked up at him, having to squint to make him out through the rays of light. "Not really." Her brain had done one hell of a job with him, though.

"I don't think there's much I can say to convince you otherwise," he said.

"I wish there was."

"Yeah." He sighed. "Me too."

The scene changed again as the sun grew brighter. OA was still there, though in a fresh set of clothes. A vase of roses had taken residence on the bedside table, a _get well soon_ card tucked between the flowers. What really caught her attention, however, was that her physical self was no longer breathing through a tube. Filled with a childlike curiosity, she pushed herself off the floor and stepped closer, noticing how her bruises had begun turning green.

"How long?" She asked, only half-expecting an answer.

"Five days."

It didn't _feel_ like five days. Though, she supposed her brain was too busy healing to continuously indulge her escapism. And it must be doing something right if she was able to breathe on her own again. At least she hoped so.

She turned toward Jason, realizing she could only barely make him out through the sunlight. She drew her eyebrows together; since when had the sun gotten this bright? The stories she'd heard of near-death experiences hit her then, making her step away from the windows.

"You're not dying, Maggie," Jason said. "You're waking up."

_Oh_. She let out a breath; she wasn't stepping into _that _bright light.

"It's not your time yet."

Time. She smiled. There was time for her to experience the rest of her life, to seek justice against evil and watch the sun rise and set. She would be alive to celebrate milestones; she wouldn't be gone.

"Goodbye, Maggie." And though she couldn't see his face, she knew he was smiling back at her.

"Goodbye, Jason."

**A/N: I am in the process of writing a part two to this. So, fingers crossed I actually manage to finish it. No promises, though.**

**Thank you for reading :) **


	2. viva la vida

"Maggie?" OA wasn't sure if she'd actually moved her hand or if the sleep-deprivation had finally gotten to him. Nevertheless, he took her hand, giving it a small, encouraging squeeze. "Hey," he said, a slight quiver to his voice. "Can you hear me?"

Although he had seen her and all of her glory in the field, witnessed how she could bring armed men twice her size to their knees, he had never been more amazed by her strength than now, when she limply curled her fingers around his.

"Hi, Maggie." Despite only being two words, they'd gotten him choked up. "Can you open your eyes for me, too?"

She let out a hum, and they fluttered open a moment later, dark gaze meeting his. For the first time in nearly a week, he smiled, the warmth spreading from his chest dulling some of the pain and worry he had been carrying lately.

"Hey Mags," he said softly. "Welcome back."

"Hi." Her voice was barely audible, hoarse from days of disuse, but he'd never been happier to hear someone speak. "Wat.."

_Water_, he realized; she must be parched. He let go of her hand, fishing a bottle from the floor before handing it to her — or trying to. She struggled to grasp the flask, eventually letting out a frustrated sigh. He fought back the urge to tell her _it's okay_, sensing that to be the last thing she wanted. Instead, he just held the bottle for her, staying quiet as she took a few sips.

And just like that, his chest tightened again.

Truth be told, he'd been worried ever since she first went under. An informant, Drew, had introduced her to some mid-level drug traffickers in hopes they'd put her in touch with her boss. A few women had recently gone missing, and whispers from the shadows of New York had it that he was responsible. Allegedly, he was branching out into human trafficking. They had no proof, though, but they hoped a meeting would go a long way.

They thought the operation had gone smoothly. The mid-levelers had given her a location for a meet-up, telling her their boss would be interested in discussing the possibilities of a contraband purchase. She and Drew were supposed to show up at a takeaway place the next day, so they'd put agents in the vicinity, OA included. No wires. No agents following her. They didn't want to risk exposal. However, she never showed up. Neither did anyone else.

A text eventually ticked in on his phone. An address sent by Drew's burner. And then another text appeared on his screen: _I'm sorry_. He'd known already then that her cover had been blown, and we was pretty sure Scola had known too, because the fifteen-minute drive had become a ten-minute one. Ten minutes were still long, though. Ten minutes to picture what could've happened, each scenario worse than the former. By the time they reached the warehouse he felt downright sick, and it had nothing to do with Scola's driving.

He hadn't bothered to wait for the rest of the cavalry. Scola didn't try to stop him, either. He just followed him as they quietly entered the building, guns raised in preparation for hostiles. But there were none. There was only Maggie, lying in the middle of the room, unmoving in a pool of red.

The only thought that registered over the sound of his heart hammering against his chest, was that she looked _dead_. They had been too late, and she'd died, alone and scared. Executed in the back of some dirty warehouse. He had let her down; he was her partner, for goodness' sake. He was supposed to keep her safe. _I got your back_, he'd told her. Multiple times. And his failure to live up to those words had cost her her life.

Scola said something, but it faded into the background as OA rushed to her. He pressed two fingers against her wrist, hoping, praying, that he'd been wrong. And then he felt it: a weak _thumpthump_ against his fingertips. She was alive.

He'd whispered words of comfort, as much as for himself as for her. _You're gonna be okay. I'm here. Help is on its way. Just another minute. _He'd repeated her names enough times that it almost didn't feel like a word anymore, hoping she'd somehow hear him.

Her survival had been nothing short of a miracle according to her doctors, something her body bore the signs of. The wrapping around her torso was a constant reminder of how a single bullet had ruptured her lung. Her skin vibrantly told the story of how she'd been at the losing end of a fight. Even weaponless and outnumbered, she hadn't surrendered. She'd fought.

It wasn't until then that the rage settled. Drew had set her up, knowingly guided her towards death. And though he'd later find out he'd done it to protect his family, Isobel had likely saved his career by refusing to let him anywhere near him. _The best thing you can do for her, is stay here._

He got pulled out of his thoughts when Maggie tried to push herself into a sitting position.

"Woah, hey," he said, and she let out a pained hiss before falling back onto the bed. "You need to take it easy," he continued. "You got hurt, remember?"

That triggered something in her; she brought her good hand to her chest, tracing the edges of the bandage with her thumb. She didn't say anything for a while, and he didn't push her. After everything, she probably needed some moments for herself to process the trauma. Instead, he took her hand again, running his thumb across her knuckles as they sat in silence.

"They shot me," she said eventually, drawing her eyebrows together. "I didn't—" she trailed off, lost in thought.

"Didn't?"

"Realize, before I entered the building." She paused to take a breath. "I just thought he was nervous, you know?" Another pause. "I didn't think he'd…I just...I wanted to find those women." She exhaled slowly. "Did you find them?"

He hesitated.

"Oh." She dropped her gaze. "Okay."

"I'm sorry, Maggie." He wished he had some better news for her. "There have been a few arrests, though. Maybe they'll lead somewhere."

She nodded, still not looking up. "Yeah, maybe."

They both knew, though. The world was filled with tragic fates, theirs among them. The only silver lining was that Maggie hadn't joined them. The close call had stayed just that; a close call. It could have been avoided altogether, though.

Once again, he became painfully aware of the tightness in his chest, and he cleared his throat. "Uh, Maggie?"

That made her look up, head slightly tilted as she waited for him to continue.

"Look, uhm, I'm sorry I wasn't there when…" he exhaled sharply, realizing he couldn't even finish the sentence. _Pathetic_. "I'm sorry."

Her expression softened. "OA..."

"I should've followed you." They shouldn't have taken the risk of sending her in alone. "I'm your partner," he continued. "I'm supposed to have your back."

"This isn't on you," she said, voice softer now. "You know that, right?"

Logically, on some level, maybe. He realized trailing her would've entailed a considerable risk as well. It was just was so easy to make judgement calls retrospectively. So what if someone had spotted them? Drew was going to set her up anyway. At least backup would've been close by.

"Okay." She sighed. " I know you have a misplaced sense of responsibility, but I'm alive, OA." She gave his hand a small squeeze. "I'm right here, and I'm telling you that it's not your fault."

"Okay," he said, and only partly because he didn't want her to over-exert herself through talking.

"Okay?"

He relaxed his shoulders. "Okay."

She smiled. "And for the record, you're an amazing partner, OA."

That got a smile out of him. "Guess it's a good thing you're stuck with me, then."

"Very." She shifted her gaze to a spot next to him. "A partner who brings me flowers and everything."

The roses. Oh. He'd almost forgotten about them. "Yeah, uhm, I thought it would be nice." After spending the better half of a week here, he'd found that the room desperately needed some color. Also, she'd mentioned liking them once. He thought they might cheer her up. "The card is from everyone, though," he continued, picking it up to show it to her. "They all signed it."

She took a moment to just focus on the writing in front of her, still smiling. They all cared, and he hoped she already knew that, but he imagined reminders didn't hurt.

Then, she frowned. "It's odd."

"What? The flowers?"

"No, that's very sweet," she reassured him. "It's just...I had this dream, and I had roses and a yellow card there, too."

Odd was perhaps an understatement. "Oh?"

"Yeah." She shrugged. "I'm too tired to think about it." He didn't blame her. "But thank you," she said, "for the flowers, and for staying."

"Of course."

He couldn't imagine being anywhere else. She wasn't just his partner; she was someone he'd grown to care deeply about. And she'd almost died, completely alone. He wouldn't let her go through this on her own as well. Besides, he'd missed her. Staying close, making sure her condition was improving, had been a source of comfort. Even if the one-sided conversations had been depressing at times.

Then she coughed, the motion causing her to groan and reach for her side.

"You okay?"

"Never better," she replied dryly. "Absolutely _wonderful_. Why do you ask?"

"I see your sense of humor hasn't improved."

She gave him a side-glare. "Hah."

"I'm gonna go get you a nurse, okay?" he said, rising from the chair. He probably should have done so already, come to think about it.

"Okay."

"I'll be right back."

As he reached the door, he couldn't help but throw another look back at her, yet again in awe of her resilience. How incredibly lucky he was to still have her in his life. And though he knew she had challenges ahead of her, he had no doubt she'd conquer them all. She was alive, and she would be alright. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

**A/N: Look at me, finishing projects. :) Thanks for reading!**


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